


Sweet Summer Child

by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse)



Series: Always Been a Pencil [4]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 23:51:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19414072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera
Summary: Rowan and Sansa decide to have a baby.





	Sweet Summer Child

**Author's Note:**

> This story discusses artificial insemination and fertility issues for a character who is transgender. 
> 
> Mostly this is a story I waffled about adding to the series because it felt very self-indulgent. Then I remembered that self-indulgence is one of the points of writing fic, so here it is somewhat after the fact.

They never did get married. Sometimes Rowan thought about that wistfully, how pretty Sansa would look in a white gown and the promises they’d make. He would be lying if he said he didn’t wish they would sometimes. 

But he had her in his bed every night now. When his mother had suggested that they take the old house in the meadow, Rowan had thought Sansa would laugh at the idea. It would take her even farther from her family than King’s Landing and was as different a life as the one she lived as possible. 

Instead, she’d immediately said yes. 

“I love it there,” she confessed when they were alone again. “It’s so peaceful and the summers are longer. If you can get a position you want, why not?” 

“What about your family?” 

She kissed his shoulder, “Arya and Robb have their own families. Jon is doing whatever Jon does in the woods. The younger ones will be on their own soon enough. Mom barely lets me breath in the business, no matter what I try and she’s determined to leave it all to Robb eventually anyway.” 

“I didn’t know you felt that hemmed in with the business,” he frowned. She’d talked about some of her frustrations, but rarely so baldly. 

“I didn’t want to make a fuss about it until I had other plans,” she breathed out. “But maybe if you don’t mind, I’ll just live off my trust for a while and try to get a new business off the ground.” 

“I don’t mind if you don’t.”

His old pediatrician still had a practice. When he called after some days of working himself up to it, she was briskly professional. He could come and try for a few months. If all went well, she’d start easing back her hours. Maybe one day the practice would be his entirely. 

“You always seemed like a sensible young person,” she said. 

“Thank you,” he’d replied graciously. Even if he rarely felt sensible. 

Their life in the meadow was like a dream. They repainted and moved all the furniture, bought new things. He experienced vague disorientation all the time. There was the kitchen his mother had made their meals, now his domain with his own knives and pans. Here was the hallway of his childhood leading to not to his bedroom, but Sansa’s office. Gone were his band posters and black curtains and in their place the fresh yellow paint and gauzy curtains. It was half a thriving consulting business and half a hobby room with sewing patterns mixed with financial statements, fat binders bristling with post-it notes alongside clouds of yarn. 

When something frustrated her, she would step outside into the flowers and if he was home, he would go with her. They’d tread the paths his younger feet had beaten down and wind their way through the woods together. And maybe that was enough like a wedding to soothe him. 

During the day, he looked into throats and ears, gave shots, soothed worried foreheads of all ages, and listened to questions. Some days were easy, some were hard, but he never regretted a moment of the work. And each night, he got to come home to her. 

“Let’s go for a walk,” she suggested, one spring evening when they’d finished demolishing a pile of pasta. 

“It’s getting dark,” he pointed out, even as he stood. 

“There’s a full moon and I’ll bring a flashlight.” 

The moon was very bright. Each blade of grass cast a shadow on its neighbors. The first cicadas of the year were just clearing their throats, making themselves known. 

She reached for his hand. He smiled as he clasped hers. 

“I was thinking,” she said when they’d been quiet for some time. “About children.” 

“You were?” They had discussed it before, when they’d planned their move and both ended on an ambiguous ‘maybe’. 

“I think I’d like to try for one,” she spoke carefully, clearly, like she always did when there was something that she wanted. 

“Okay,” he inhaled and exhaled. “I’d like that.”

“Really?” She squeezed his hand tight. “You’re not just saying that because I want to?” 

“I love kids,” he assured her. “I make my living with them. Having our own would be amazing.” 

“You weren’t sure about it last time.” 

“Because I didn’t know what our lives would look like,” he considered that than nodded. “We’re good. You and I. We’re solid. I would trust us with a baby.” 

“Me too,” she laughed. “We’re very trustworthy people.” 

“The real question,” he was loathe to point out, but it would hang there otherwise, “is how. Do you want to adopt?” 

“I’d like to try on our own first,” she shrugged. 

“Sansa...I can’t. You know. Contribute.” 

She turned to him, a slight wrinkle of confusion in her forehead. Had they never talked about it? He hadn’t, probably. He loved how wholly she accepted him without much question beyond the necessary and they had never talked about having children seriously until now. 

“I didn’t freeze my eggs. It was too expensive and I didn’t want to wait until I could afford it to start testosterone,” he felt a pang about it now, but it was what it was. “Even if I hadn’t gotten a hysterectomy, they were probably toast after awhile on the hormones.” 

“Oh,” she bit her lip, “I thought...I shouldn’t have assumed.” 

“It happens. I just never planned on you,” he teased gently. “If I knew you were coming, I would have frozen all of them so we could have as many Stark-Grass kids as you wanted.”

She nodded, already looking distracted. He knew her mind was whirling.

“There’s always a sperm bank,” he tried. “They’ll still have you in them and that’s enough for me.” 

“Not for me,” she said wistfully. “I wanted them to have your curls or your smile.” 

“They’ll have me as a Dad for their whole lives, they’ll be at least a little like me.” 

She started walking and he followed. Had to since she was still holding tight to his hand and, less literally, his heart. 

“What about a family donor?” she finally asked, bravely. 

“Sweetheart,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to do that.” 

His family meant Lannisters. His mother had always been firm that her family was dead or might as well be and he respected that. 

“They aren’t all him,” she lifted his chin. 

“Tommen is out,” he plowed on deciding not to touch that. “Great kid, wouldn’t trust his genetics at all.” 

She frowned, “What about-” 

“No. No, nope. Absolutely not. Dad had a vasectomy anyway, but that’s way too weird for me.” 

“So not Tommen or Tyrion,” she said practically. “That just leaves....” 

“Shit.” 

“We don’t have to decide tonight,” she turned back to the house. 

But now he knew she wanted it and that made it hard not to want it too. 

They talked about it here and there for weeks, bringing them straight into the holidays. They made the drive to King’s Landing. Myrcella had insisted on hosting this year, ready to show off her new apartment. It was a little cramped with everyone there, but pleasant. They didn’t bother with a table, piling paper plates high with food and finding their little niches. 

“You look rested,” he squeezed in with his mother, elbow to elbow with her. 

“We spent the weekend being very lazy, it’s good for the skin,” she agreed. “How is your practice?”

“We just talked five days ago,” he said amused. 

“And nothing happened in the last five days?” 

“Two cases of the flu? It’s just the regular stuff, nothing dramatic. Did you figure out who took your soda out of the break room fridge?” 

“It was that sleazy opthamologist, I told you about!” She huffed. “Like he needs a free coke.” 

“Hey, Mom?” 

“Mm?” 

“We’re thinking about having a baby.” 

She dropped her hand to his arm, “Oh, sweetheart, really?” 

“Yeah, I know, it surprised me too, but I think we’re as ready as we can be and we both want to.” 

“That’s good, you’ll be an excellent father,” she said approvingly. 

“There’s one thing though,” he poked his fork through his food. “Sansa really wants someone with some of my genetics to donate. And I can’t say that I don’t want that too, but...” 

“Complicated.”

“No...sort of? It’s just there’s really only one viable donor.” 

Jaime was standing crammed in near the coat rack, Brienne standing partially in front of him while she talked to someone from Myrcella’s pack of Dornish friends. Her expression suggested that the man was amusing her, but only temporarily. Jaime had affected a bored disdain, but didn’t seem inclined to leave her company. 

“Oh, Rowan,” his mother sighed. “Surely not?” 

“Who else?” 

They both looked through the crowd. 

“I mean Tommen doesn’t have any visible issues.” 

“He’s fine enough, but all those recessive genes...it’d be a gamble. You don’t have to go back far enough as it is to find Tully and Lannister trees tangled together.” 

Brienne was starting to tip over into annoyance. Jaime leaned in and said something in her ear that made her snort-laugh and she excused herself, him trailing behind looking triumphant. 

“Just..him,” Tysha frowned. 

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you first. If you think- if it’s too much, then we’ll just go to a sperm bank. I’m not that vain, I can live with a kid that doesn’t have my features. I wouldn’t treat them any different.” 

“I know,” she squeezed his arm and released it. “I won’t let my past stop you from the future you want.” 

“But-” 

“I know you’ve held that grudge for me. And I’ll never forgive him, not really, but I can see things from a further distance now. I’ll love any child of yours because they’re yours. And hers.” 

Sansa was talking with her sister, bending down a little to hear her. They were a strange pair, but thick as thieves these days even if they didn’t see each other much. It was a rare day that didn’t see Sansa picking up her phone to fire off a text to Arya, usually getting unintelligible memes in response. 

“She’s pretty great.” 

“Hm, the two of you seem to be conspiring,” Tyrion came over, handing a glass of water to Tysha. “If it’s about presents, I want to know everything.” 

“What presents?” Tysha took the glass, their fingers crossing over each other. “I was thinking we could just donate to charity this year.” 

“Or both,” Tyrion grinned at her. “And you can’t distract me, I can see you both looking deep in thought.” 

Tysha grabbed her cane and levered herself up, “I have to ask Sansa something, you can have my place.” 

“Thank you, dear,” Tyrion watched her go before taking her place. “So. I take it she wants to leave me alone with you on purpose.” 

For his mother, Rowan had intentionally taken the kind approach. He knew his father appreciated different tactics, so he got to blurt out, 

“I think we need Jaime’s sperm.” 

His father went bright pink and then started laughing, smothering the sound behind a hand as other people turned to see what was going on. It was only when he was calm that he said, 

“So, the great fertilization question was finally asked.” 

“That makes it sound like a really big deal.” 

“It is a big deal. We’re talking about my future grandchild. I take that extremely seriously. I think I’d like to go by PopPop. Very jovial.” 

“Were you just waiting for me to ask about this?” 

“No,” Tyrion shrugged and stole a bit of food off Tysha’s abandoned plate. “But it had crossed my mind that you might. If you decided to have children.” 

“We could adopt.” 

“Of course,” he nodded. “But Sansa is the type of woman that probably wants to have the whole experience down to giving birth at home with a midwife.” 

“You think?” he blanched. “Oh fuck, I’ll have to break out my old notes on obstetrics.” 

“I would’ve given a lot to have that,” Tyrion said vaguely. 

As a young child, Rowan had assumed that his father was absent by choice. When his mother finally told him everything, he’d briefly developed an angry grudge that eventually faded to bemused longing. When he’d finally met the man, Tyrion had been welcoming and fond almost immediately as if he’d just been waiting around for a grown child to saunter into his life. 

They had known each other for ten years now. It would never fill the eighteen year gap they hadn’t had together. Rowan knew that. It was just that he forgot that Tyrion might feel that way too.

“I’ll give you a full report,” he said instead of the thousand other things that were tight in his throat. “So you’re okay if...if I ask him?” 

“I’m not the one that barely speaks to him,” he shrugged. “I’m guessing I was never in the running.” 

“It’s not because-” 

“Oh, I know,” Tyrion winked at him, “all things considered, I’m glad to be spared that awkward conversation. How are you going to ask him?” 

“Um. Carefully? Should I include Brienne?” 

“Maybe,” Tyrion frowned. “But it’s his choice in the end.” 

They didn’t try that weekend. They went home, regrouped. 

“Arya said we could use one of her partners if we wanted,” Sansa poured them both another glass of wine. “I said that was sweet, but no thank you.” 

“I don’t know,” Rowan tapped a finger to his lips. “That Gendry fellow looks very genetically promising.” 

“He’s very handsome,” Sansa agreed with a smile. 

“Handsomer than me?” he asked, eyes wide. 

“No one is more handsome than you,” she leaned into him with a laugh. “Except maybe Loras.” 

“That’s fair,” he nodded. “I guess I should be the one to call him.” 

“Loras?” 

“Yes, I was thinking a threesome,” he tickled her knee lightly. 

“Are you sure?” she asked more seriously. “I can do it. I know how you feel about him.” 

“You don’t much like him either.” 

“I suppose not, but he didn’t actually do anything to me. It was more the lack of what he did.” 

They paused, catching their breath over it for a moment. 

“He did father Joffery,” he finally said because it did have to be said. 

“No child of ours could ever be like him,” she said with the sureness of bloodied steel. 

One minor glitch was that neither of them had Jaime’s phone number. So Rowan texted Brienne. 

_Can I get Jaime’s number?_

_Why?_

He stared at the blunt question with a frown. 

_I have to ask him something._

_Something you can’t tell me about._

_sort of. Can tell you after I talk to him_

_ok. Hand is bothering him. Don’t text._

He had the number. He took a deep breath and dialed. It rang and went to voicemail. Figured. 

“Hi, this is Rowan,” he closed his eyes, hyper aware of his breathing, “I’m going to be up near KL on Thursday for a conference and I was wondering if you could meet me for lunch. I wanted to ask you something. Important, but not urgent. Thanks.” 

He headed into work, accepting a stack of paperwork from the receptionist and taking up his desk in the back to sign forms. He kept his phone on his desk, but face down so he wouldn’t be inclined to check it for freak missed calls every few minutes. When the stack was substantially diminished, he had patients to see. He switched his cell to vibrate and picked up the first chart. 

By the time he’d caught everyone up on vaccines, diagnosed some colds and rashes, he felt a little calmer. This was his domain, the place where parents looked at him hopefully for answers and were mostly soothed by his calm words and advice. 

This would be okay, whatever way it worked out. 

He was walking to his bike when the phone finally rang. He picked it up swiftly, 

“Hello?” 

“Hello, Rowan,” Jaime sounded curious, but relaxed. There were voices in the background, someone giving orders and a group responding. He was probably waiting for Brienne to finish teaching then. 

“Hi,” all the easy confidence drained away. “I-um, so lunch?” 

“I can do lunch,” Jaime paused. “Unless you’d rather just tell me over the phone.” 

“No- it’s....I don’t know. Face to face seems kind of important.” 

“You’re not reassuring me, kid.” 

Rowan paused, soaked in the word. The idea that Jaime saw him as a child was discomforting, but also oddly pleasing. Like he’d been lumped in with the man’s own children for better or for worse. 

“It’s nothing bad,” he settled on. “It’s just a favor and one I want to give you a fair chance to refuse.” 

Jaime relented and they settled on a time. The morning of their planned lunch, Rowan kissed Sansa goodbye. 

“I feel like I’m going on a very strange quest,” he told her. 

“You are,” she laughed, reaching for one of her nice pens and tucking it into his shirt pocket. “There’s my lady’s favor for you.” 

The conference wasn’t particularly interesting, but he dutifully sat through the morning session and mostly managed to pay attention. He had developed a sort of tunnel vision concentration during medical school that served him well. 

The diner wasn’t busy. He got a table and set down his bag. He thought about Sansa. This time of day, she was probably sitting ramrod straight in front of her laptop, writing emails and ‘mmhmm’ ing one of her more nervous clients over the phone. She’d have her hair half up, out of her face for practical purposes. She was probably wearing a silk blouse and a pencil skirt, even though she wasn’t going out. Looking professional got her in the mood to work, she always said. 

If he were home, he’d wait until the call was over and bring her lemonade. Kiss her neck and show her something funny he’d found online. Maybe they’d take a quick snack break, cookies and lemonade on the porch. 

“So,” and Jaime was there as if materialized directly into the chair in front of him. “Here I am, as requested.” 

“Thanks,” Rowan focused on his face. He had shaved apparently, eyes bright and wary. “I know it was a strange request.” 

“I’ve had stranger,” Jaime rested his injured hand on his knee, under the table. A habit Rowan had noticed and then dismissed a long time ago. “But I am curious.” 

“Can I get you gentlemen anything to drink?” the waitress hovered expectantly. 

“Oh, a diet coke,” Jaime flashed her a smile and the waitress smiled back. There was power in that face, in the shooting star grin. 

“Just water for me thanks,” Rowan looked down at the sticky menu, still unopened. 

“I’ll come back with those in a bit.” 

She was gone and the silence threatened to consume them both. 

“It’s..” Rowan took in a breath and let it out. “Sansa wants to have a baby.” 

“Okay,” Jaime raised an eyebrow. “And what? You’re checking to see if we’ve got any more genetic skeletons? Tyrion could tell you that...unless you don’t want to ask him? He’s not precious about that stuff.” 

“No, I’m aware. We talked about dwarfism and all that.” 

“You’re more likely to get twins,” he looked into the middle distance at that. “I’ve heard it skips generations.” 

“See that would matter if I was the one impregnating her,” he huffed. “I don’t have anything to contribute.” 

“Oh...what?” Jaime paused then winced. “Right. I keep forgetting about that.” 

Which was...gratifying in a way Rowan didn’t feel like examining in the moment. 

“Look, I just need to know if you’re willing to give us your sperm.” 

The waitress paused holding a tray of drinks. Rowan sighed as she tentatively set them down, 

“Do you...need a minute?” She asked very gently. 

“Please,” Jaime choked out. 

She walked away far more quickly this time. 

“I know it’s a strange ask,” his cheeks were hot. “But it would be nice. To have a baby with some of my genetics. You wouldn’t need to do anything. We’d have to sign some paperwork to make it clear you’re a genetic donor only, but that’s it.” 

“Mm,” Jaime wasn’t looking at him or even looking at anything at all really. There was something absent in his gaze as if he’d gone elsewhere. 

Rowan waited him out. He took a sip of water and went over the answer he’d already crafted for Sansa for when Jaime said no. 

“It’s a role I’ve played before,” Jaime said eventually, heavily. 

Oh...oh fuck, Rowan felt like a total asshole. How had that never even occurred to them? Probably because neither of them really gave Jaime’s inner life much thought at all which now seemed a bit callous. 

“Sorry...I...sorry?” He swallowed hard. 

“Would you ever tell them the truth?” 

“Yes, of course,” Rowan sat up straighter. “I mean, just for their own medical history alone it’s better to know, but once they’re old enough to get it, we’d tell them. And the whole family will know if you don’t mind. I already talked to Mom and Tyrion about it.” 

“Of course you did,” Jaime scrubbed a hand over his eyes. 

The waitress timidly came back, “Can I get you guys anything?” 

“Egg white omelette,” Jaime said from behind his hand. 

“Spinach pie,” Rowan handed the sticky menus back to her apologetically. “Thank you.” 

“Sure thing, hon,” she smiled benevolently on him and moved on. 

“I’d like to be involved,” Jaime nodded slightly, more to himself than to Rowan. “And I should probably talk to Brienne first. She does get grumpy when I make life changing decisions without her.” 

“How? I mean, I get the Brienne part, but how involved?” 

“Just...be around. Be able to see the kid occasionally? I don’t need to be a dad, but I’d like to be an uncle.” 

“I mean you are, would be, no matter who’s sperm we used. A great uncle counts.” 

“Well there’s uncles and there’s uncles, aren’t there?” Jaime shrugged. “I’d like to be more than a once-a-year-at-birthdays uncle. But I know I’m no one’s favorite in your house.” 

What would it be like to have him there? He was already around a lot in their lives because he and Dad were close. He said shitty things sometimes, but so did Tyrion and sometimes so did Rowan for that matter. Mostly they were distantly polite to each other. 

“I think,” Rowan said carefully, “that nothing bad can come of a child having more people that love them.” 

“How the fuck did you come out this well adjusted?” 

“Um,” he fidgeted with his napkin. “Good parenting, years of therapy, and luck?” 

“Who knew?” Jaime sounded a little witful. “All right, eat your pile of hot leaves when it comes and let me think a little” 

His pile of wet leaves was delicious, but the silence was awkward. Jaime seemed content with it. For the first time, Rowan wondered if that was how Tyrion and Jaime had stayed so close all these years. He could imagine a younger version of his father going on and on about some passion and Jaime being content to listen. 

Brienne was a listener too. Their marriage must be very quiet. 

Rowan pulled out his wallet when the bill came. 

“Let’s not,” Jaime slapped down a twenty, ignoring Rowan’s protest. “I’ve got enough to go around. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” 

“Okay,” was all he could offer and then not even a goodbye because Jaime was gone in a whirl of cologne. 

“It’s a maybe,” he explained to Sansa as he pulled onto the highway. “Wish I’d thought about the whole having to hide being a dad thing for years. That’s gotta have made an impact.” 

“I don’t have a whole lot of sympathy. No one made him sleep with his sister.” 

“You make a good point.” 

Almost promptly twenty-four hours later, his phone buzzed as he was making dinner. Jaime’s name flashed up on the screen. 

“Hi,” he answered quickly. 

“I’d like to talk to Sansa,” Jaime said in lieu of hello. 

“Uh, yeah sure,” he crossed into their bedroom where she folding laundry. “For you, apparently.” 

He left them to it and finished his tireless quest to make the perfect eggplant lasagna. He was just putting it in the oven when she came back out. She was beaming. 

“He said yes!” 

“Wahoo!” he pulled her into a messy hug/kiss/dance around the living room combo. 

“He was weirdly nice about it,” she tumbled them onto the couch. “Oh...oh. Rowan!” 

“Yes?” 

“We’re going to have a baby.” 

He stared at her, the enormity of it all rising like a tidal wave. 

“We really are.” 

They really were. It all moved surprisingly quickly after that. There were a few emails back and forth before the contract was agreed on. Jaime would have limited visitation rights (all things they would have agreed to any way but clearly made the man feel better to have in writing) and otherwise would give up all paternity. The rest was all fairly bloodless. The clinic received the test tube and Sansa went in for a brief appointment. Apparently Stark fertility was everything it claimed to be and it all took in the first go. 

The pregnancy went along swimmingly. They read up on home births and to Rowan’s relief, Sansa decided against it in the end. She did have a very sensible doula that treated Rowan like a semi-useful inanimate object. 

“Can I name the baby after my father?” Sansa asked, late one night when she was still barely showing. 

“Yeah, yes,” he kissed her. “Of course.” 

“Even if they’re assigned female at birth?” 

“I like Eddie for either. Gender ambiguous names are the best anyhow.” 

“And what about a last name?” 

“Oh,” he exhaled. “We could hyphenate?” 

“Grass-Stark, Stark-Grass...” 

“I like Stark-Grass. Sounds like the beginning of a poem.” 

“Eddie Stark-Grass,” she whispered. “I love it.” 

So did he. Before the day the baby came screaming into the world, he loved her entirely and only more so when he laid her tiny body against his naked chest as instructed by the midwife and he could them the infinitely small whistle of her sleeping breath. 

Sansa was close by, eyes half-lidded, her beautiful hair matted with sweat and her eyes red-rimmed. 

“My heart is going to burst,” he said very very very quietly. 

“Same,” she smiled wearily at them. 

Thanks to Eddie deciding to arrive an entire week early, and the rage of Winterfell storms, the first grandparents on the scene were Grass’ not Starks. 

“Oh, my dear,” his mother went straight to Sansa’s side, ignoring the baby entirely. “How are you?” 

“Tired,” she admitted, “but happy.” 

Tysha folded one of Sansa’s hands into both of her own and held on, “I remember it well.” 

Tyrion went to Rowan, who was still gently clinging to his precious bundle although they were both now entirely dressed. 

“This is her?” Tyrion looked over the small face. 

“Eddie, this is your grandfather, say hello,” Rowan instructed. 

Eddie opened one eye a slit then promptly closed it again. 

“I see my usual charms are working,” Tyrion laughed. 

“Hold out your arms,” Rowan said to him. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You want to hold her don’t you?” 

“I-” Tyrion looked longingly at the baby. “Yes. Yes, I do.” 

Rowan molded Tyrion’s arms to the right shape and gingerly plonked Eddie into them. 

“Just support her head and don’t drop her and you’re golden.” 

“I think I can manage that,” Tyrion’s thumb was very slowly sweeping over the fine down of hair on her small head. 

There was a picture of that moment in their living room for the rest of their days. Tyrion looking thunderstruck and Eddie a passive little bundle in his arms. 

To Rowan’s great horror, the first time Catelyn held her, she started to cry. Not the baby, but Sansa’s iron lady of a mother. It wasn’t a tiny genteel sniff either. Great gushing sobs that had her sitting down and clutching at the small body like it was a life preserver. 

“I--I--” Catelyn stopped and started then exhaled with another mighty sob, “oh, Sansa, I just wish your father had lived to see this. He would’ve been so happy.” 

And then poor Sansa was crying too and Rowan had to save his daughter from being in the middle of a crushing, wailing hug. They retreated and returned with a box of tissues and a bottle respectively. 

Catelyn helped them pack up and head home. She stayed for a few days, helping them get settled, grinding on Rowan’s nerves, and re-arranging all their cabinets. Eddie slept, cried, ate and needed a diaper change. 

Jaime arrived on the last day of Catelyn’s visit with Brienne in tow. She was carrying three large flat aluminum containers. 

“We bought you dinner for the next few days,” she explained and then went to the fridge to tetris them in with all the other containers from friends and family. “Pod’s doing.”

“Hello, Catelyn,” Jaime said pleasantly. 

“Lannister,” she said stiffly. “I’ll just pop out for more diapers. Back in a bit.” 

She disappeared into the daylight and Rowan turned bleary eyes to Jaime’s face, “You’re a miracle worker, thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” Jaime snorted. “Baby asleep?” 

A thin wail traveled down the corridor, “No anymore. Hold on, my turn to get her anyway.” 

Sansa was out like a light on their bed, over the covers. He drew an extra blanket over her then scooped Eddie up, humming low to soothe her as he carried her into the living room. 

“I always forget how small they are,” Jaime muttered, staring at her with frank want in his eyes. 

Brienne was washing dishes left in the sink, paying no mind to the proceedings at all. 

“You want to hold her?” 

Jaime didn’t need showing. He slid a hand under her neck first before lifting her up as if he held babies every day. Eddie sank against his chest with a soft sigh, little hand clenching against the soft fabric of his shirt. He wasn’t dressed up, Rowan realized. Jaime had dressed for the occasion in an old well loved t-shirt with faded letters about some MMA championship long dead and jeans with a hole by one of the pockets. Clothes for cuddling a baby and possibly getting thrown up on.   
Eddie was in good hands. 

Rowan slumped into the couch, eyes closed. He didn’t mean to fall asleep, but he must’ve because when he opened his eyes again, it was to find the room entirely empty. He bolted to his feet and charged into the bedroom. Sansa was at her vanity talking with Brienne in a low voice. Jaime propped up against the headboard, Eddie on a blanket across his legs apparently entertained by their ceiling fan. Catelyn had returned and she was standing uneasily by Sansa’s side of the bed, adjusting the curtains. 

The doorway caught held him up as his heartbeat started to slow again. It was a strange tableau. Brienne had her hand wrapped around one of Jaime’s ankles, casual as anything. 

“They took a room in town,” Sansa gave him a wavering smile. “They offered to bring coffee and food in the morning.” 

“Hard to say no to that,” he replied evenly. 

So they didn’t and it was fine. 

The older generation cleared out after another few days. They had a breathing space again and found their new, arrhythmic rhythm. Months passed, their family grew into it's new shape and Rowan only fell asleep at his desk a few times. 

Arya turned up alone on Eddie’s first birthday with the mud of a dozen mountains still clinging to her boots.

“Robb and Jon are like an hour behind me,” she had a new haircut, buzzed down to the roots and dyed a neon blue. Rowan approved. “Where’s my niece?” 

She disappeared with Sansa into the bedroom and Rowan puttered around for a good fifteen minutes until something occurred to him. 

He stepped outside and sure enough, parked a few hundred feet down the lane was a battered old car with an enormous man jammed behind the wheel. Rowan went back in, made a sandwich and walked it out to him. 

Sandor rolled down the window when Rowan rapped on the glass, 

“You should come inside,” he held up the plate. “I mean you could eat this behind the wheel and stare at the house, but then you wouldn’t get to meet the baby.” 

“What the fuck would I do with a baby?” 

Rowan shoved the sandwich at him so Sandor had to take it or it’d wind up in his lap. 

“Might make Sansa happy.” 

As if to prove a sullen point, Sandor didn’t come in through the open front door for another forty-five minutes. Sansa was on the couch by then, Arya jammed in close. Arya was studying Eddie like she might explode and didn’t look away to say, 

“I clocked you ten minutes into the drive, old man. Your stealth is for shit.” 

“Who said I was trying?” Sandor grumped. 

Standing in the small living room, he looked even larger, like a bear that had awkwardly inveigled its way into a doll house. 

“Hello, Sandor,” Sansa smiled at him. It was her best smile, that was small and soft and warm. 

“Hello, little bird,” he fidgeted. 

“Come here,” she pat the sofa on her other side. 

With a grimace, Sandor managed to squeeze in beside her without jostling mother or child. Arya was cautiously poking one of Eddie’s exposed toes. 

“She’s a pretty little thing,” Sandor allowed studying her. Eddie burbled. “Tiny bird.” 

“Yes,” Sansa laughed. “I suppose that she is.” 

After dinner, Sansa talked Sandor in to holding her and his hand could cradle the entirety of her small body. They had a very solemn staring contest until Eddie’s eyes went cross and she let out a violent sneeze. 

“Hm,” Sandor narrowed his eyes at her. “You better be more trouble than your mother. World needs more hellion Starks.” 

“Please don’t corrupt her before she can speak,” Sansa winked over Sandor’s head at Rowan. 

He grinned widely back. 

The Stark men arrived as Arya predicted, a car packed with tumbling dark hair, a wheelchair, and one long suffering pregnant woman. Talisa sat down gratefully on the couch, accepting cold lemonade with a happy sigh. Robb took possession of Eddie, and took her for a walk around the house, explaining the entire Stark family tree. 

Jon perched on a chair, eyes flitting from face to face and saying little. Rickon ran out the door as soon as he’d said his hellos, to go exploring in the meadow. 

“How are you?” Bran wheeled in next to Rickon, leaning forward with a wry look. 

“Oh, you know. Amazing and exhausted,” he offered. “How are you?” 

“Engaged.” 

“BRAN!” Sansa sprung to her feet, embracing him. “Why didn’t you tell us? I didn’t even know you were dating someone!” 

“Give me their social security number so I can run a background check,” Arya growled. 

“Wow, Mom is going to murder you,” Robb said approvingly, then blew a raspberry into Eddie’s neck until she giggled uproariously. 

“They’ve been dating for years,” Sandor snorted. Everyone, Bran included, turned to look at him. Sandor glared back, “Do none of you remember that I’m paid to know this shit?” 

“...you didn’t tell Mom?” Bran ventured. 

“Paid to know, not tattle like a six year old.”

A selfie of Bran with a lithe bright eyed boy were produced. Jojen Reed had apparently been around for several years. They met at a meditation retreat and they intended to get married at the same location. 

“We’re not in any rush,” Bran remained calm as the storm of his siblings raged around him, their voices overlapping in concerns, congratulations, and teasing. “Probably another year or two until anything gets done about it.” 

The Lannisters arrived in force an hour after that bomb was dropped. Tommen piled out of the car first, bending down to steal Eddie from her blocks and kiss her chubby cheeks, 

“I’ve brought you a wonderful birthday present, sweet pea,” he crowed. 

“I swear to fuck, Tommen, if there is an animal entering my home-” Rowan started. 

“I would never! You don’t just dump animals on people. It’s a recipe for a second abandonment,” he looked utterly scandalized. “I brought her a house.” 

“A reasonably sized one,” Myrcella was jogging to catch up, “we went in together. Stop scaring people Tommen, honestly.” 

“Surprise animals,” he clucked his tongue at Eddie. “Your father is a very suspicious person.”

“Is anyone going to help with his box?” Jaime yelled as he and Brienne struggled under a very awkwardly shaped package. 

Well, probably faked struggling, if Rowan had to guess. But Myrcella did loop back around to place a token hand on it. 

“Sorry, Dad!” Tommen grinned. “I have a baby. Can’t do anything.” 

The house was a beautiful wooden playhouse that had been painted to match the cottage. When Tyrion and Tysha arrived, it was halfway put together and Tyrion gave a put upon sigh, 

“How am I supposed to properly spoil my granddaughter when you’re all trying to outdo my constantly? It’s embarrassing.” 

“You scooped my proposal to my wife,” Jaime was holding up a shutter for Brienne to nail into place. “I can do whatever I want. Anyway, this isn’t our gift. The kids came up with this.” 

“So what’s yours?” Tyrion narrowed his eyes. “A pony?” 

“There’s no surprise animals!” Tommen yelled from where he was attempting to feed Eddie her lunch. They were both covered in green bean puree, but neither looked upset about it so Rowan stayed out of the way. 

“I got her a stuffed animal,” Jaime snorted. “She’s a year old. I’ll hold onto the extravagant things for when she can remember them.” 

“For my tenth birthday, Dad took me to Paris,” Myrcella grinned, she was sitting next to Sansa on the porch. “And bought me a wardrobe. Uncle Tyrion had the clothes copied in miniature for my dolls.” 

“We’re going to come up with a price limit,” Rowan groaned. 

But the little house was very sweet and didn’t look out of place in the front yard. It was far more sensible than the wooden dagger Arya produced with a feral grin and probably more likely to be used than the plastic badminton set Rickon had sheepishly produced. Robb and Talisa more sensibly gave some teething rings and some bath toys. Tyrion had a stack of board books, simplified versions of famous stories with bright pictuces. Jamie did in fact, solemnly present Eddie with a plump stuffed lion. 

“To chew to pieces,” he explained as she promptly stuck one of it’s ears in her mouth. 

The hotel in town always did good business on Stark-Grass family occasions and they slowly cleared out as the night grew dark, cold, and clear. Jaime lingered and when Tyrion made to leave he cleared his throat, 

“There’s something and I thought maybe...I don’t know. It should’ve come from you probably, but Aunt Genna left it to me.” 

“There’s a name I haven’t heard in some time,” Tyrion glanced at Tysha. “Do you mind?” 

“Not at all, I’ll finish my tea,” Tysha sat back down at the kitchen table where Sansa was carefully writing down the gifts for thank you cards, including the stack of packages her mother had sent along. 

“Could you get it from the car?” Jaime asked Brienne. “My knee is killing me.” 

“I told you that shouldn’t have done all that kneeling. The kids could’ve put that thing together,” she chided him, but seemed grateful for the escape from the table. 

“Might as well get comfortable.” 

Which was how Rowan wound up sitting between his father and uncle on the couch. Brienne returned with a battered book and handed it to Jaime, before sitting down at his feet. She took a paperback out of her pocket and seemed to settle in contently, not showing any sign of noticing when Jaime’s hand dropped down to play with the ends of her hair. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen that one before,” Tyrion frowned. “Some kind of family tree?” 

“It’s a photo album,” Jaime announced. “Of you know. Us.” 

“That sounds sentimental. Not very us at all,” Tyrion frowned at him, “Why would such a thing exist?” 

“She liked keeping records. And we used to visit her sometimes. A lot of them are from that. And I added a few. It’s for you, Rowan, but I thought...Brienne pointed out that Eddie might like to know it some day. Where she came from.” 

Brienne was reading about a murder most foul as far as Rowan could tell and showed no signs of having ever had any such idea. 

“Okay,” Rowan said slowly. “So...can you show me?” 

Jaime finally opened it. The first page was a wedding photo in black and white. The bride was smiling in a Cheshire sort of way, her dress lacy and covering almost every inch of her. Her light hair was crowned in a tiara and her arm rested gently on her groom’s. He was handsome enough, solemn as he stared outward. He was wearing a military uniform. 

“Is that..” Tyrion reached over to gently touch one corner of the picture. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this one. This is your grandmother.” 

“She was twenty-two here. They got married right before Dad shipped out.” 

They lingered there and Rowan was quiet, letting them have their moment of silence. 

The page turned and time had certainly passed. Two babies, both dressed in simple white shifts were propped up against a pillow. One had a bow attached to wispy hair. 

“Wow,” Rowan laughed. “You can really see Eddie there if you squint.” 

“Babies all look the same,” Jaime shrugged. “No idea who took that one. Looks professional.” 

On the opposing page, the babies had grown some and the shot was clearly candid. The picture was in a washed out palette, the blues and reds sharp against the yellowing background. The toddlers were on the beach, both in overalls and t-shirts. One had a pail and the other a shovel as they squatted to play in the sand. They were indistinguishable one from another.

“That’s me,” Jaime tapped on the one with the pail. 

“How can you tell?” 

“I’m the one following her directions,” he said amused, pointing to a chubby finger that did seem to be giving an order. 

Another page turn, another time jump. The twins were definitely different now, Cersei’s hair already long and her features narrowing. She was caught in the moment of turning toward the camera, in a dress that was ridiculous on a child her age full of lace and ruffles, the skirt of it balled up in her small fists. Jaime, looking far more comfortable in pants and a buttoned up shirt glaring daggers at whoever was holding the camera. 

“Probably trying to sneak out of services,” Jaime guessed. “They went on forever and everything we had to wear itched.” 

“The shoes pinched too,” Tyrion reminisced.

The page turned and there was Tyrion, already a toddler himself. No baby pictures, which neither of the brothers remarked upon. Rowan thought of the phone he’d bought more space to store the hundreds of photos of Eddie and his stomach clenched. 

The photo was mostly of Jaime, dressed in a baseball uniform, holding a bat. Tyrion was sitting at his feet, apparently involved in pulling up grass. He had on a baseball cap that was falling over his eyes.

“You came to all my games,” and that must’ve been a good memory, Jaime sounded pleased. “Whenever I got in uniform, you’d start yelling ‘ball’ at the nanny.” 

“The last time I was that enthusiastic about sports, I’m sure,” Tyrion laughed. 

There was a large group shot next, lots of older relatives and some cousins that Tyrion dutifully named then had to check the back of the photo to be sure he remembered them rightly. Aunt Genna was holding a chubby Tyrion in her arms and he seemed bemused. 

“She always liked you better.” 

“Because I was around. She always asked about you.” 

Another time jump and here was Jaime in a suit and Cersei in another dress. They were tall already, probably twelve or thirteen. They were posed on the front steps of Casterly Rock. On the opposite page was Tyrion at the same age, in a suit, looking away from the camera as if lost in thought. 

“Moving up day?” Jaime guessed. “On our way to boarding school, I think.” 

“Something like that. I forgot how weedy you looked at that age.” 

“No one looks good at thirteen, it’s the law,” Rowan couldn’t look away. Because finally there was his own face. Not even with Tyrion, but with Jaime himself. There was the mulish look in the eye that Rowan had sported at that age and the half-real half-fake smile. 

Another page, and there was Jaime with his fists wrapped in white tape and one eye swollen near shut and a trophy so tall that it came up to his waist where it sat on the ground. 

“She wasn’t there for that,” Jaime shifted slightly the book sliding further from his lap into Rowan’s. “She must’ve paid the school photographer for it.” 

Then there were graduation photos, Cersei in a light summer dress, her cap still perched on her head as she tucked neatly under Jaime’s arm. He was in the full gown, eyes bright. They did look like a matched pair, fitted together so neatly that it was hard to picture them apart. 

Tyrion’s graduation picture was a train wreck. He was clearly high, eyes bloodshot and his robe unzipped over Bermuda shorts and a black t-shirt with the words ‘Salute my dictorian’ slashed across the chest.

“Not my finest hour,” Tyrion said dryly. 

“What does that even mean?” Rowan turned to him. 

“You know, one does not imagine as a wasted eighteen year old that one will have to explain their choices to their own child some day,” he smiled faintly. “I was salutatorian because I had excessive absences at the beginning of the school year, so I couldn’t be considered valedictorian even though my grades were higher than the asshole that got the title. I had the t-shirt specially made.” 

“That is some expensive pettiness,” Rowan said approvingly. Excessive absences...right. Seventeen. Somewhere else while Tyrion wore that t-shirt, Rowan had been a newborn himself. How young they had been, his parents. He felt weirdly tender toward the angry teenager, so hemmed in and scared, unaware of the ripples of his decisions.

“Mm,” Tyrion flipped the page quickly. “Let’s not dwell on it.” 

Cersei’s wedding dress had been lovely. A refined modern version of her mother’s. There was no groom in the picture, not even Jaime standing at her side. She was alone on the front steps of the Rock again, posed and pressed. Her eyes were half-lidded, turned down to her bouquet of red roses. 

“Odd choice,” Tyrion said quietly. “It was a pretty wedding. You’d think she’d have chosen a shot of the wedding party or something.” 

Jaime turned the page swiftly. All of a sudden there wasn’t just one picture on a page, but several, taped down instead of neatly tucked into the folds. 

“These are the ones you added,” Rowan guessed. 

“The kids helped,” Jaime shrugged. “Had to get their blessing to give this to you. Gave them copies of everything.”

Joffery was a notable absence, but that was fine by Rowan. Otherwise, it was a profusion of Myrcella and Tommen, once and a while stiffly posed with their mother or once with the man they’d called father. Mostly they were candid shots, some blurry, of them at play or in special moments. A piano recital, a kindergarten graduation, a birthday cake. They thinned out for a time then came back full force when Jaime gained custody, crammed on the page for space. Now they were no longer glossy, but computer printouts. Here even was Rowan himself, perched on a barstool talking animatedly to Tyrion while Brienne looked on indulgently. There was Jaime and Brienne’s wedding, than Tysha and Tyrion’s, both couples grinning. Here was Rowan's graduation from medical school, respectable in comparison to his father's even with violently pink hair. 

And then there was Sansa, her hair a burnished gold in the sun smiling broadly, her cheek smushed against Rowan’s who had sunglasses only halfway shoved up his forehead. Here she was sitting next to Myrcella, on a park bench, both of them laughing. There she was just starting to show, a bump under a romper as she and Brienne went over the gym's finances for an expansion. 

On the last page was Eddie, just a few pictures so far, but many pages left to fill. 

“Thank you,” Rowan pressed a hand to the back cover. His throat felt thing and his eyes burned. “This is...it’s great.” 

“I like the last bit better than the rest,” Tyrion decided, getting to his feet. “And now I have to beat Paris and sentiment. What are your feelings about precious jewels for the under five set, my son?” 

“Absolutely not,” he managed to get out. "Semi-precious at most."

Brienne looked up from her book and lightly smacked Jaime with it on the thigh, “Did you survive?” 

“They’re just photos,” he leaned down and kissed the crown of her head. “Who dun it?” 

“No one yet,” she stretched, her toes pointed and arms outstretched, suddenly an overwhelming presence. A dangerous creature for a brief moment and then just Brienne. “Ready to go?” 

And if Rowan cornered Jaime just before he could leave and gave him the fastest, lightest possible hug that was between them and no one elses' business. 

It was dark in the bedroom when Rowan was done pouring back over the book. He wanted to cement it in his head so he could explain it all to Sansa in the morning. For now, she was curled up on her side, one hand escaped from the covers as if ready to wake and pick Eddie up at the slightest cry. 

Eddie was sleeping on her back. Her new lion was beside her crib, ready for more chewing in the morning. Rowan resisted giving her a last kiss, not daring to wake her. Instead, he got undressed and got under the covers. He curved himself around Sansa, resting his lips against her shoulder. Her hair was tied up in a bun, a few stray hairs escaping to tickle his face. 

She stirred a little, shifting closer. Half asleep already, he rested his hand on the point of her hip. There was a future of pages to fill, everyday moments and milestones captured in still images. But right now, he thought he could want nothing more than this. 

Sansa had given it all to him. She had allowed him to come close when she had no need for anyone, as self-sufficient and sturdy as an oak tree. She had decided he would do when she had every reason to turn away anyone that approached her. She left her family to live with him. She had dealt with her wounds to have a child with him. She wrote thank you notes, ran their finances, sewed Eddie lovely clothes and laughed when they were inevitably spat up on. 

He loved her always, the background radiation of their lives. But just then he loved her as consumingly and bewildered as those first giddy days when they would Skype for hours, talking about whatever came to mind so there would be an excuse not to hang up. 

“I love you,” he whispered, and kissed her shoulder. 

To his surprise, she rolled over. Her eyes were closed, but he could see the curve of her lips in the moonlight. She shoved at him until he was on his back, her head on his chest, and her arm around his waist.

“Go to sleep,” she ordered through a yawn. 

“Yes, my queen,” he teased, obligingly closing his eyes. 

“I love you too,” her voice was low, barely audible. “For always.” 

“For always,” he agreed.


End file.
